Antonio Tabucchi - Pereira Maintains

Pereira looked up from the page and said: My dear Monteiro Rossi, you tell an excellent yarn but my paper is not the proper place for yarns, in newspapers we have to write things that correspond to the truth or at least resemble the truth, it is not up to you to say how a writer died, for what reasons and in what circumstances, you must simply state that he is dead and then go on to speak of his work, of his novels and poems, because when you write an obituary you are essentially making a critical assessment, a portrait of the man and his work, what you have written is absolutely unusable, Lorca’s death is still wrapped in mystery and what if things didn’t happen as you say they did?

Monteiro Rossi protested that Pereira had not finished reading the article, that further on it dealt with the work, the figure and stature of Lorca as man and artist. Pereira read doggedly on. Dangerous, he maintains, the article was dangerous. It spoke of the hidden depths of Spain, of the rigidly Catholic Spain which Lorca had made the target of his shafts in The House of Bernarda Alba , it told of the ‘Barraca’, the travelling theatre which Lorca brought to the people. At which point there was a long panegyric on the Spanish working classes and their longing for culture and drama which Lorca had satisfied. Pereira raised his head from the article, he maintains, smoothed back his hair, turned back his cuffs and said: My dear Monteiro Rossi, permit me to be frank with you, your article is unpublishable, completely unpublishable. I cannot publish it, no newspaper in Portugal could publish it, and no Italian paper either, seeing as how Italy is the land of your ancestors, so there are two possibilities: you are either irresponsible or a troublemaker, and journalism nowadays in Portugal has no place for either irresponsibility or troublemaking, and that’s that.

Pereira maintains that as he was saying this he felt a trickle of sweat running down his spine. Why was he sweating? Heaven knows. Pereira is unable to say exactly why. Perhaps because the heat was terrific, no doubt of that, and the fan was too feeble to cool even that poky room. But maybe also because his heart was touched by the sight of that youngster looking at him with an air of amazement and disappointment, who even before he finished speaking had begun to gnaw at his fingernails. So he couldn’t bring himself to say: Well hard luck, it was a try but it hasn’t come off, that will be all, thank you. Instead he sat for a while with folded arms looking at Monteiro Rossi until Monteiro Rossi said: I’ll rewrite it, I’ll rewrite it by tomorrow. At which Pereira plucked up the courage to say: Oh no, that’s enough about Lorca if you please, there are too many things about his life and death that won’t do for a paper like the Lisboa , I don’t know whether you are aware of it, my dear Monteiro Rossi, but at this moment there’s a civil war raging in Spain, and the Portuguese authorities think along the same lines as General Francisco Franco and for them Lorca was a traitor, yes, traitor is the very word.

Monteiro Rossi got to his feet as if the word struck the fear of God into him, backed towards the door, stopped, came a step forward and said: But I thought I’d found a job. Pereira did not answer, he felt a trickle of sweat running down his spine. Then what must I do? muttered Monteiro Rossi on a note of entreaty. Pereira got up in turn, he maintains, and went and stood by the fan. He said nothing for a minute or two, waiting for the cool air to dry his shirt. You must write me an obituary of Mauriac, he said, or of Bernanos, whichever you prefer, do I make myself clear? But I worked all night, stammered Monteiro Rossi, I expected to be paid, I’m not asking much after all, just enough for a meal today. Pereira would have liked to remind him that the evening before he had advanced him the money for a new pair of trousers, and clearly he could not spend all day every day giving him money, he wasn’t his father. He would have liked to be firm and tough. Instead he said: If your problem is a meal, all right I can treat you to lunch, I haven’t eaten yet either and I’m quite hungry, I wouldn’t say no to a nice grilled fish or a wiener schnitzel, how about you?

Why did Pereira suggest such a thing? Because he lived alone and that room was a torment to him, because he was genuinely hungry, or because his thoughts were running on the photograph of his wife, or for some other reason? This, he maintains, he cannot presume to say.

Be that as it may Pereira invited him to lunch, he maintains, and chose a restaurant in the Praça do Rossio. He thought it would suit them down to the ground because after all they were both intellectuals and that café-restaurant was the great meeting-place of writers, the ’Twenties had been its golden age, the avant-garde magazines were virtually produced at its tables, and in a word anyone who was anyone used to go there and maybe some still did.

They made their way down the Avenida da Liberdade in silence and reached the Praça do Rossio. Pereira chose a table inside, because outside under the awning it was like an oven. He looked about him but saw not a single writer, he maintains. The writers must all be on holiday, he remarked to break the silence, off at the sea perhaps or in the country, there’s no one left in town but us. Perhaps they’ve simply stayed at home, replied Monteiro Rossi, they can’t be too keen on going places, not in times like these. Pereira felt a pang of melancholy, he maintains, as he weighed those words. He realized that they were indeed alone, that there was no one about to share their anxieties with, in the restaurant there were only two ladies in little hats and a group of four shady-looking characters in a corner. Pereira chose a table rather on its own, tucked his napkin into his collar as usual, and ordered white wine. I’m feeling like an aperitif, he explained to Monteiro Rossi, I don’t drink alcohol as a rule but just now I need an aperitif. Monteiro Rossi ordered draught beer and Pereira asked: Don’t you like white wine? I prefer beer, replied Monteiro Rossi, it’s cooler and lighter and anyway I don’t know one wine from another. That’s a pity, said Pereira, if you aim to become a good critic you must refine your tastes, you must cultivate them and learn about wine and food and the world at large. Then he added: And literature. And at that point Monteiro Rossi murmured: I have something to confess to you but I’m too scared. Tell me all the same, said Pereira, I’ll pretend I haven’t understood. Later, said Monteiro Rossi.

Pereira ordered a grilled bream, he maintains, and Monteiro Rossi asked for gazpacho followed by seafood risotto. The risotto arrived in an enormous terracotta terrine and Monteiro Rossi ate enough for three people, he polished off the lot Pereira maintains, and it was a simply enormous helping. He then pushed back his lock of hair and said: I wouldn’t mind an ice-cream or even just a lemon sherbet. Pereira made a mental calculation of how much the meal was going to cost him and concluded that a fair part of his weekly wage would go to that restaurant where he had banked on finding half the writers in Lisbon and instead had found only two old ladies in little hats and four shady characters at a corner table. He started sweating again, untucked the napkin from his collar, ordered a glass of iced mineral water and a coffee, then looked Monteiro Rossi in the eye and said: Now spit out what you wanted to confess before lunch. Pereira maintains that Monteiro Rossi lofted his gaze to the ceiling, then lowered it but avoided his eye, then coughed and blushed like a child and said: I feel a little embarrassed, I’m awfully sorry. There’s nothing in the world to be ashamed of, said Pereira, provided you haven’t stolen anything or dishonoured your father and mother. Monteiro Rossi pressed his table-napkin to his lips as if he hoped the words wouldn’t come out, pushed back the lock of hair from his forehead and said: I don’t know how to put it, I know you demand professionalism and that I should use my reason, but the fact is that I preferred to follow other criteria. Explain yourself more clearly, urged Pereira. Well, Monteiro Rossi hummed and hawed, well, the fact is the heart has its reasons that the reason knows nothing about, and I obeyed the reasons of the heart, perhaps I shouldn’t have, perhaps I didn’t even want to, but I couldn’t help myself, I swear to you that I would have been quite capable of writing an obituary of Lorca by the light of reason alone, but I couldn’t help myself. He wiped his mouth with the napkin again and added: What’s more I’m in love with Marta. What’s that got to do with it? objected Pereira. I don’t know, replied Monteiro Rossi, perhaps nothing, but it’s reasons of the heart again, don’t you think? it’s a problem too in its way. The problem is that you oughtn’t to get involved with problems bigger than you are, Pereira wanted to say. The problem is that the whole world is a problem and it certainly won’t be solved by you or me, Pereira wanted to say. The problem is that you’re young, too young, you could easily be my son, Pereira wanted to say, but I don’t approve of your making me a father to you, I’m not here to sort out your conflicts. The problem is that between us there must be a correct professional relationship, Pereira wanted to say, and you must learn to write properly, because otherwise, if you’re going to base your writing on the reasons of the heart, you’ll run up against some thumping great obstacles I can assure you.